


Lionheart

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, Knights - Freeform, LARPing, M/M, Middle Ages, Spells & Enchantments, Time Travel, chivalry is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: Sam and Dean travel through time to the Middle Ages, and find out there is more than one way to die by the sword. Will they enter a tournament for medieval sweethearts...or be lost to the sands of time?





	Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fridayblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fridayblues/gifts).



> In my mind, Charlie continues to live on as queen of Moondoor. Also please note that this story is not historically accurate. My knowledge of knights and Middle English is very vague.

"Ah, Moondoor. We meet again." Dean took a sip of his tepid gas station coffee and watched two dudes run at each other with long sticks. "Overcompensating much?"

"They're jousters, Dean. It's a legitimate sport."

Dean just raised an eyebrow at Sam, who was still tired from their all-night drive. He was cute when he was grumpy, not that Dean would ever tell him that. Not in a million years.

Amidst the thunking sounds of fake lances hitting shields, particolored pennants flapping furiously in the summer breeze, the LARP field was alive with activity. Dean stopped at a booth to inspect an array of medieval weaponry. 

"Greetings, good lady," he said to the woman at the table, who looked over Dean's jeans and flannel button-down with an air of the unimpressed. "Might I try out this fine mace?"

"Sure, but you break it, you buy it."

Sam pulled Dean away before he could get his hands on the fearsome bringer of death, and directed him toward the royal tent. "We can look around once we've talked to Charlie about the case."

"Potential case," Dean pointed out.

It was just a run-of-the-mill disappearance, Charlie had explained over the phone the night before, probably nothing. But all the same, Dean had turned the car around the moment he heard those chirpy tones coming down the line. And now here they were, sticking out like sore thumbs at yet another gathering of faux nobility and jousters.

Dean lifted up the tentflap and ducked inside, where they found Charlie bent over a large, yellowed map, shoulder to shoulder with an attractive swordslady — elven, by the look of those realistic clip-on ears.

"Sam, Dean! Long time no see!" Charlie tipped her crown at them. "Thanks for coming."

"Anything for the queen," said Sam, smiling widely back. "So did this guy show up again yet?"

Charlie's face fell. "Well, no… We haven't seen him yet. But I don't know, I probably shouldn't have even called you. You probably drove five states just for some coincidence—"

"Coincidences don't just happen coincidentally," Dean assured her. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" She seemed honestly shaken up, which to Dean meant trouble. After everything, Charlie had a good nose for these things.

"Well, there's a tournament today to win an enchanted sword," she said, then turned to the elven woman. "Lieutenant Meredith, would you fetch it for us?"

"Yes, milady." Meredith bowed low.

Charlie turned back to them. "The guy who brought it was really excited to show everyone, but if I'm honest I don't know what the big deal was. It's kind of tacky. A giant emerald on the hilt. You'll see."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Somebody's snooty about their weapons."

"Hey, don't forget I've seen the trunk of your car."

"Touché," said Dean.

"Anyway, the guy, Greg, was going to act as master of ceremony and present it to the victor. But then dude up and disappears yesterday!"

"Maybe he got stage fright?"

"No he disappeared. As in, right in front of my eyes. Like, poof." Charlie waved her hands. "In the middle of talking to me! One second he was there and the next he wasn't. And no one has seen him since. I mean, maybe it was a trick of the eyes or something, maybe he did just leave the camp, but that's weird, right?"

"Sounds pretty weird to me," Sam said.

"Yeah, he was really excited about today. Do you think he stepped through like, a portal to another dimension?" Her eyes got big. "Or maybe he found an invisibility cloak?"

Dean shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

Sam pointed past her shoulder, where the lieutenant had returned carrying a purple, velvet pillow. "That's the one you're talking about?"

"Yep."

The blade in questions lay glinting on the pillow, sharp and sleek. Dean couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I need to get my hands on that sword," he breathed.

Charlie patted his arm. "Said every straight guy ever."

"What?"

Charlie blinked at him. "Nothing."

Dean ignored her and went to take a look. Up close, the sword was not at all the crappy thing Dean had imagined from Charlie's description, dull and forged in someone's mom's basement. This thing was a work of art. Dean didn't know much about medieval weaponry—and definitely not as much as Sammy knew—but the longer he looked at the sword, the more beautiful it seemed to become.

"It's amazing," he said, almost to himself, leaning closer. The gemstone inset in the hilt wasn't tacky at all, but instead alluring and expensive looking, glowing an ethereal misty green. Silver vines wound around it, like it was a...a heart or something. A heart trapped in earthly shackles, trying to break free.

"I'll take this to the tourney field, then?" Meredith asked Charlie.

"Yes, thank you."

"Wait!" Dean said. He was distantly aware that he was overreacting, but he also felt very strongly that he needed to examine the sword a little bit longer. He whistled under his breath. "This is...I mean, this is some fine craftsmanship, don't you think?"

From behind his shoulder, Dean heard Sam ask Charlie, "Who did you say the disappearing guy was?"

"His name was Greg. _Is_ Greg," she corrected herself. "He's just your average LARPer. A good-hearted gamer who loves his mead. He left all his stuff here. I hope he didn’t get kidnapped...or worse." 

Dean was only half-listening, his eyes returning to look into the depths of the jewel which was almost the size of his fist and glowing. And now that he was really looking closely, for a moment he thought he glimpsed an image— a figure in the gem. It almost looked like...Sam? But that must have been the sunlight falling in through the cracks of the tent, shining off the gem and making him imagine things. He squinted, trying to make it out.

"No way…"

Yes way. There, in the swirling depths, if he was seeing it clearly, was Sam, in a passionate embrace!

"What the hell!" he said out loud.

"Dean, maybe you shouldn’t touch that…" 

Sam, in a passionate embrace...with a man! A short-haired man slightly shorter than Sam, who looked super into the kiss. And was he holding a sword? The image was clear enough to make that out for sure, but a little warbled. Dean reached out to polish the gem to see if he could shine it up to make out just who the mystery man — the scoundrel — was.

But the moment he touched the gem, he felt a tingling sensation run up from his fingertips, and felt the blood drain from his face. He became very aware that he was about to faint.

"Dean!"

Sam grabbing onto his shoulder was the last thing Dean felt.

"Oh son of a—"

 

 

 

—bench.

Dean blinked. The world had gone sideways.

Oh. He found he was lying on his side now, with his face smooshed into a wooden—

"Bench," he muttered, head woozy.

He tried to sit up but the room swam, so he took a moment and then tried again, carefully this time, gripping the edge of the bench beneath him.

"Easy," he said, levering himself up on one arm.

He swiveled his head around, confused. Around him, nerds in knightly gear mingled about, lots of noise and armor, but no sign of Charlie. In fact, this was a different tent entirely, more rustic, less colorful. He must have passed out and been carried here.

He rubbed his face. His head wasn't clear enough for him to focus on what anyone was saying, and they all seemed entirely uninterested in his existence. The smell of sweat and horses was strong and all-pervasive.

"Didn't know they had actual horses," he muttered. Maybe they'd gotten a special permit for the tournament. He blinked a little more and the ringing in his ears subsided. "Sam?"

"Ngh?"

It seemed Sam was under the bench, a suspicion that was quickly confirmed when Sam rolled out onto his back, hair sticking up all over and full of grass, a pissed off expression on his face.

"It's a transportation device," Sam coughed. "The sword."

"Yeah, sure," Dean said, standing and offering him an arm up. Sam's knees wobbled when he got up too quickly. "Hey, hold your horses."

Sam straightened a little slower, only to be nearly bowled over by one of the LARPers — a very huge, very in-character knight.

"Sorry," said Sam, raising his hands in front of him.

"Gobbledygook," said the be-costumed fellow. He gave Sam a once-over and added, "Blah blah blah."

When Sam and Dean didn't respond, he repeated himself.

"Really getting into character there," Dean told him, but Sam elbowed him hard.

"Dude. It's Middle English, I think. Or...or something similar."

"Wow, extra in-character then."

"Dean," Sam grimaced. Then he gave himself a small pep talk. "Come on, you know this. If you can read it, you can probably figure out how to speak it. Just try and understand."

The wannabe knight said something again, and Dean was...hoping Sam was wrong about the transportation device thing. But when he glanced around again at all the very, very rough looking guys milling about he started to get the creeping suspicion that maybe he and Sam really weren't in Kansas anymore.

Middle English. Dean went over the sounds he remembered in his head and what Sam had said about vowels being different and all that. It was similar enough to current English to be able to understand it on paper with a lot of effort. Dean had slogged through his fair share of documents from the late medieval period. Fewer than Sam, that was for sure, but enough to understand talk about monsters and fighting and magic. Enough to read lore and just maybe enough to understand some of whatever it was this guy was talking about.

"Ok," Sam muttered. "Let's try this out." He cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. In what was a cross between English and whatever he evidently thought Middle English sounded like, he said the equivalent of, "Hail, sir knight."

A look of understanding passed over the knight's face, and he threw back his head to laugh, long and hard.

Dean leaned in close to Sam. "That's a good sign, right?"

The man repeated the greeting to Sam, wiping a tear from his eye.

Dean could understand enough to at least understand the gist when Sam responded with something maybe _approximating_ : "Pray I apologize for hitting your body."

"It is no worry," the knight maybe said. He looked them over and said, "Foreign-born men?"

"Aye," Dean said. "I mean— yay?" Because if Sam's theory was actually correct, then this was surely, unequivocally the truth. He felt something much larger than worry start to edge over him.

"Quite foreign," Sam agreed.

The knight — because goddammit, he was almost probably really a knight — nodded like this explained everything. "I am Wyot. Wyot the gigantic. And you?" He reached out to tug at Sam's t-shirt. "What coat of arms is this? Beautiful lions and flowers?"

Dean laughed in shock, both that he could understand anything, and at the insult to Sam's crappy thrift store t-shirt.

"Verily," he said. "Sam is a lass." He raised an eyebrow at Sam, and laughed at him along with the knight, who seemed like a pretty chill dude actually, not at all like he wanted to kill them.

Dean found he was right when the knight grinned and said, "I like you both. When not in battle, I am kind." But then Dean's false sense of security was dashed when the knight probably most likely said, "But just wait until the tournament. Then I am your enemy."

He punched Dean in the shoulder in a good-natured, manly fashion and Dean bent under the blow, wheezing an agreement. Right. He got the idea.

"Can't wait," Sam told the knight, and suffered a heavy, manly blow of his own. "Goodbye."

"Farewell, foreign friends."

As soon as the knight had passed them, Sam's expression changed to one of panic. He leaned into Dean. "Dude, we are in the _past_. What the hell? What the hell!"

"Yes. We are well and truly screwed," Dean agreed. "And if I understood that right at all, he's expecting to see us in a tournament?"

They turned to see the knight speaking to a man at a table, who then wrote something on a large scroll. After him, the next knight, and then the next. There were twenty or so men and women in various stages of armor who were clearly all in the processes of registering and gearing up for the day's fight.

"That's definitely why all these knights are gathered here," said Sam. "Look, they all have different coats of arms." 

A woman walked by just then with a splash of red speckled over her shield, a shield which bore a painting of a crow pulling entrails from a sheep. Dean could tell from experience, the red was definitely not paint.

"Far be it from me to chicken out when a fight's on the table," he said. "But there is no way in hell I'm entering that tournament."

"It doesn't seem strategic, no," Sam said.

Dean shook his head. "Ok, come on. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

And with that he pulled Sam out of the tent, into what he hoped was Charlie's camp of lovely fake-medieval delights.

Instead his darkest suspicions were confirmed when they emerged into a bustling encampment of jovial knights, scampering page boys, tittering ladies making bloodthirsty bets over dice, and the chaotic shouts of artisans peddling their wares—and none of them just pretending.

"Gadzooks," said Dean.

The attempt at medieval cursing fell flat as Sam, his usually stoic-in-the-worst-of-times brother, continued to look like a deer caught in the headlights of a fourteen-wheeler. Dean grabbed his sleeve and swiveled him around in a very important direction.

"Look, Sammy. A beer tent!"

It was like a cheery canvas beacon in this loud and confusing world.

Sam resisted momentarily. "No, Dean. We have to find a way back. Right now."

"Dude, we are doing nothing right now but standing around while a bunch of dangerous dudes with weapons are planning how to kill us. Let's go hide in plain sight, regroup, and maybe get some info from the locals."

Sam clenched his jaw, but then nodded jerkily. They kept their heads down, and strode through the mud to the beer tent, snagging a couple choice disguise pieces along the way. Once in the beer garden they found seats across from each other at a long wooden table, which meant they were now brushing shoulders with ruddy faced men wearing loose shifts and pantaloons, shouting in a foreign tongue, but at least they might get a drink.

A barmaid descended upon them and Dean fixed her with what he hoped was a charming smile.

"Good day, fine gentlemen," she said. "Want you beers?"

"Yay," Dean answered for both of them. He pointed to himself and Sam and gave her a decisive nod.

She poured them out a rough glass of foggy liquid each from a pitcher, and then hovered.

"Oh, right," Sam said, patting his pockets for payment they didn't have.

Dean thought quickly, then tried to look confused. It was not difficult. "Ah, this foreign coin," he said (or at least hoped he said). "I find I am bewildered."

He pulled out his wallet and dug out two quarters, and handed them to her. He hoped they'd look valuable enough to pass for currency. The barmaid examined them in interest, running her finger over George Washington's profile.

"Nay, sirs," she said, eyes widening. "It is far too much."

"You're probably giving her enough to buy a house," muttered Sam.

"I pray you, what is your name?" Dean said.

"Rohese."

"Well, Rohese. Great fortune for such great beauty," Dean said, fluttering his eyelashes up at her.

"Oh, spotted rogue," she chortled, and grinned cheekily back, pocketing the coins. "Thank you kindly."

"Spotted!" Dean hissed when she'd left.

Sam was laughing. "Maybe that means freckled?"

Dean rolled his eyes and sipped at his beer, feeling a bit more grounded.

"Told you this was a good idea," he said, adjusting the rope-as-belt that he’d snagged from a horse saddle. He was feeling a bit better.

In life, he had learned, it was very easy to panic. That's why you needed to find the thing that was familiar and hold on tight. The stein of frothy, watered down beer was strange-tasting and lukewarm in his hand but it was making all the difference.

Seated on the other side of the table, wearing a blanket poncho-style and a cool leather studded sword belt sans sword, Sam was looking around at their surroundings with mixed emotions. He looked like he was warring between annoyance at having his shirt made fun of by a super built knight and the nerdy glee of discovering time travel and hanging out in olden times.

"Oh that's riiight," Dean realized. "You've never done this before."

Sam took another sip of beer.

"Time travel," Dean said. He waggled his eyebrows at Sam. "Your first time."

Sam frowned in thought. "Yeah. You've gone back, what? Three times?"

"Something like that."

"But that's always been divine intervention. Never just random object-induced time travel. We'll have to ask someone about this. When we get back, I mean."

"Hold up," Dean said. "I just realized, we traveled through time _and_ space. Because this is not North America."

"Yeah, we definitely followed the sword. It must have been in England in the..." Sam looked around again. "The thirteen hundreds?"

Then he paled.

Dean paused with the glass halfway to his lips. That expression was never good. "What is it?"

"Oh god," Sam said. "I hope we're in the _very early_ thirteen hundreds. I really don't want to catch the plague."

"Ok, let's just, um, definitely make sure to get out of here. Today."

Sam finished his beer, and they waved down Rohese.

"Anything to eat?" Dean asked her hopefully.

"Is there any food?" Sam corrected, using totally different words. And she nodded to him and left.

Dean asked, "What did I say?"

"I don't know. It sounded like nonsense to me."

"Oh crap." But Dean smiled, feeling a glow of pride. His baby bro, always so prepared. "Thank god for your giant brain, right? You are literally having conversations in a dead language."

"Look who's talking, Dean." Sam's face went from pale to pink in seconds. It looked good on him.

"Huh?"

"Dude, you are really good at this. Communication is all about making yourself understood, not necessarily speaking a language fluently."

"I guess."

"It's just, how are you keeping your cool? I'm freaking out over here."

Dean shrugged. "I'm freaked too. I just figure, time might be different but dudes are always beating each other up and drinking beer, right? That's a universal constant. If we stick with that, we'll fit right in."

"I guess so," said Sam, but looked a little happier, maybe because Rohese was returning with a plate of chicken.

Dean grinned at Sam. "Awesome. Hot wings, just like home."

Rohese stood by the table for a moment as they dug in. "You are from same land as magic man?" she finally asked.

"Magic man?" Sam repeated.

She nodded. "Foreign man. Magic." She pointed across to another table, where a man in an ill-fitting green robe was just standing up, adjusting his very modern-looking glasses.

Dean looked to the food, then back at the dude.

The dude caught Dean staring, blanched, and promptly took off at a run.

"Dammit," Dean said. His choice was made. "Thanks," Dean said to Rohese, throwing down more quarters on the table, and then followed Sam in hot pursuit of the wizard.

 

 

 

When they caught up, Dean fisted his hand in the arm of the very billowing robe and tugged the so-called magic man into a nearby tent. "Why'd you do it!" he barked.

"P-please don't kill me!" the guy stuttered in English. Then his face lit up. "Wait! You're speaking English, too! Oh thank god, you're from real life, aren't you? I thought you were going to kill me back there!"

Sam said. "You're Greg, right?"

"Yeah. Who the heck are you guys?"

"My name is Dean." Dean loomed up behind Sam. "And this is Sam. We came to rescue you. So you better start explaining yourself. We thought you were in trouble but now it turns out you're just livin' it up in the beer tent—"

The way Greg returned to cowering with this hands up in front of him definitely didn't look like the stance of an evil sword enchanter. 

Sam put a hand on Dean's arm. "Look, sorry. We're pretty frazzled. We weren't expecting to travel back in time. We just want do figure out how to get back to our time, as quickly as possible, with minimal injury."

Greg peeked at Sam through his hands. "Oh. Oh, thank god. That sounds like a perfect plan."

"But to do that we're going to need your help, some information. First thing's first, did you enchant the sword yourself or did you find a witch to do it for you?"

"The sword…" Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Oh my god, it was the _sword_."

Sam looked furtively to Dean, then back.

"It all makes sense now," Greg muttered to himself.

"So, I take it you didn't know the sword was some kind of time travel device?"

Greg shook his head. "I just thought it would be the perfect prize for our Tournament of Lords and Ladies. You know, ‘They that vanquish all competitors have the right to sit at the Queen's side, as her honorary vassal.'"

"Charlie?"

"Yeah." His face was dreamy at the mention of her name. "Queen Charlie. She has such shiny hair."

Sam shook his head. "So you accidentally used the sword, like we did?"

"Well, I was just giving the sword a good rub down with polish, and when I started buffing up that green jewel on it, zap! I ended up in this crazy ass place, with horse shit all over my expensive boots and like fifty giant dudes trying to flay me alive." His eyes had gotten crazed again. Dean couldn't really blame him. "They caught me walking around with my cell phone out, trying to get signal. I had to pretend to be a powerful wizard, which I figured was the only thing that would stop them from throwing me in jail, or worse!"

"Dang," said Dean, thinking back to descriptions of medieval torture devices he'd seen.

Greg rubbed a hand over his face, finally muttering, "Maybe I should have paid attention to the warning."

"Warning?"

"Yeah, some mumbo jumbo written on the ebay description."

Dean's eyes widened. "Does everyone around here buy their cursed objects from _Ebay_?"

"Well, where would you go to look for a sword?"

Sam cut off the argument before it started. "Greg, just tell us what the description said."

Greg frowned in thought. "Something about it being a tool of chivalry, to be wielded by he who needs to learn to fight for his own heart, or prove his heart's intent or something. Then something about the ability to walk between the pages of history by harnessing the power of love. With great power comes great responsibility et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam."

"Oh," Sam said slowly, but at Dean's questioning look shook his head. "Uh, nothing. Go on, Greg."

"Well, that’s it. I’ve been stuck here since yesterday, trying to avoid being killed."

Dean frowned at Greg. "Well, if there was a warning in the description, why'd you ignore it? Why'd you buy a sword like that in the first place?"

"Because it looked cool, duh." Greg's tone turned incredulous. "And because...magic doesn't exist?"

Dean straightened to his full height. "Are you sassing me, Greg?"

Greg looked like he was at the point of taking hold of Dean's poncho and begging for his life. Instead he sagged against a table, defeated. "Please help me. I need to get out of here. I don't want to have to live in a tent. I don't want to till the land with all able-bodied men from my village. I want to live a normal life! Drinking craft brews while watching TV and petting my non-feral cat." He took a deep breath, and looked at them imploringly. "Plus, I was just about to propose to the girl of my dreams. If I ever get back, I swear I won't chicken out..."

"Well, there's no way in hell we're staying here," Sam said placatingly, cutting him off before the waterworks. "We'll figure this out."

"Yeah," said Dean. "Don't worry." Then a thought occurred to him. "Wait, if the sword brought Greg here back, then how was it still in our time period for us to touch?"

Sam snapped his fingers. "Ha. That confirms it. It's—"

"—a temporal conduit that exists across time!" Greg finished excitedly.

"Yes!" Sam said. "And that's why it didn't just follow you here when you touched it."

"Because it's a portal, not a vehicle."

"What it _is_ isn't important," said Dean. "What's important is going to get it, so we can get the hell outta dodge."

Greg's face fell. "Ah. That's actually impossible. You'll never get close to it."

"What? Why?"

"Well, the sword is being offered as a prize. To the winners of today's tournament."

Dean gave Sam the eyebrow, and Sam looked back, a look on his face like he was about to do something very stupid. "Well," Sam said. "It sounds like one of us is going to have to enter that tournament after all."

Greg gave them a horrified look. "No! Don't go, you'll die!"

"We'll try not to," Which was maybe not as comforting as Sam seemed to think it was, judging by Greg's face.

"Goodbye then," said Greg. "It was nice meeting you, but I'm going back to the bar to hang out with the good lady Rohese. On the off-chance that you do survive, please collect me when it's time to go home."

"You betcha."

 

 

 

They left the tent, abandoning Greg to drown his sorrows in drink. Dean could relate; he'd drowned a sorrow or two in his time. But it was a brave new world this morning, and they had a mission. A quest.

Now only a couple people were milling about in the once-packed line of tents and booths. "You know, a tournament explains why this camp has kind of cleared out," Dean said. "And I only just realized that that traffic sound in the distance is definitely not a highway, it's cheering."

He started heading toward it but Sam pulled him back by his rope belt, a move that should have been annoying but was something else instead.

"No, let's go to that first tent we woke up in."

"Why?"

Sam still had that look on his face. He did not disappoint. "Because I'm fighting in the tournament."

Dean stopped him with a hand on his chest, nothing funny about this anymore. "Hey. Look at me," he said. When he was sure Sam was paying attention, he said up into his face, "Like hell you are. No way. After someone wins the sword, we're going to steal it. So let's go to the arena and just lie in wait until we can get it."

"But who's to say the sword won't disappear when the winner touches it?"

"You said it's a portal, right? So it should still be there."

"That's just a theory, Dean. And besides, what do you think's going to happen when a bunch of superstitious people with weapons see someone disappear in plain sight? They'll protect it and we'll have to fight people anyway. It might as well be a one-on-one fight, with clear rules, not us against an army of trained swordsmen. Think about it, we're lucky to get a chance like this. And we can just knock them out, we don't even have to kill anybody."

"That's...true I guess."

"I have to sign up, Dean." Sam went full on puppy dog eyes, as if he expected that to work on Dean every time. "Sure, I don't know much about chivalry or the rules of the arena or what time period we're actually specifically in, but I'm also really good with knives and I can improvise."

"Improvise my ass," Dean told him. "You just want to play knight for a day, don’t you?" But his protest was half-hearted, his resolve weakening. They really did need to get their hands on that sword before it disappeared to some far off kingdom.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm signing up instead."

"What? No. No offense Dean, but I'm—" Sam gripped Dean's shoulder, something like sympathy on his face. "I'm bigger than you."

"Bigger isn't always better," Dean grumbled. "It's how you use it."

Sam smirked. "Sure, keep believing that."

Dean shrugged Sam's hand off, and led the way to the registration tent. The guy at the table wore a viking-style horned helmet with fur around the rim, the type you might see on a cartoon character. Only it was real.

"Hail," Dean said by way of greeting. "I wish to try mine hand at swords."

The dude looked them over, from their blankets to the rope cinched around Dean's waist. Then said, "What?"

Dean mimed unsheathing a sword and swinging it. The man continued staring at Dean from beneath a fierce unibrow.

Dean watched in annoyance as Sam, much better at this language than he was, clearly explained that he himself would be fighting in the tournament.

"Ok," said the man, but then he said something else and pointed at Dean.

"Are you getting any of this?" Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Sam frowned. "I think he's saying we have to sign up together."

"Hey, Game of Thrones, no way," Dean told the guy loudly. He jerked a thumb at his chest. "Just me."

The man chuckled and started speaking.

"Uh," Sam said.

"Sam! What did he say?"

"He said this is the ‘Sweetheart Holiday Tournament,' where people sign up as teams," Sam mumbled. "Or something like that..."

"What!" Dean stared at Sam, who looked sheepishly back at him and shrugged.

The guy kept talking, and Sam listened for a while with a frown before reporting back. "He's explaining that the sword is the prize for winning the tournament, it's super valuable. It was created by a great magician who disappeared into thin air, never to be seen from again. But the love spell he put on it lives on. The sword can only be truly wielded by a soul who must prove their love. Blah blah blah." Sam translated the last bit as the guy finished with, "‘Whomsoever challenges, must play for honor and love.'"

Dean would have gleaned the meaning of that last part on his own from the way the man was waggling his one eyebrow lasciviously. He underlined this by pointing at a man knight and a lady knight kissing nearby.

"Yeah, so basically we can't sign up individually," Sam said.

"Are you just trying to get me to sign up with you--"

Sam talked over him. "And before you get any ideas about signing up together, the answer is no."

"Oh, come on."

Sam continued to look unimpressed. "This is not a joke, Dean. There are serious anti-sodomy laws here. Like, definite beheading. If it was even implied we were, you know, they'd put us in shackles. So you were right, let's steal the sword instead."

"Told you so," said Dean, never one to miss a chance to gloat. "Ask him where the sword is, let’s go steal it now and get it over with."

Sam turned to the man. "So...where's this sword being kept. Just by the by, no reason for asking."

He was way obvious, terrible at lying, despite his entire life of practice.

The man growled something ominous in response.

"He said it's being guarded," said Sam. And before Sam could ask any more questions, the man jerked down his sleeve to reveal a scarred, shriveled arm.

"Oh dang!" Dean yelled.

The man didn't look too bothered by this, just slid his sleeve back down to hide the damage.

"He said the sword's being guarded..." said Sam. "By a dragon."

"So stealing it is out," said Dean. He nodded decisively to himself, then said to the man, "Ok, put us down for two. I am Dean the Brave. And he is Samar the Horrible." He mimed writing and then pointed to himself and Sam.

"Pardon?" said the guy, looking alarmed.

"We're brothers," said Dean. "Brothers of the sacred…brothership. Fighting for the pure of heart. Sam, translate."

Sam did, and the guy's face seemed to clear a little at this. "You are not from this land," he noted, like this explained everything.

"Aye. Hear you not our outrageous accents?" Dean said. "Now write down our names."

The guy looked from Dean's probably constipated expression to Sam's doubtlessly even more constipated one. "Ok." He dipped his plume pen into its inkwell. "Coat of arms?"

Dean nudged Sam. "Show him the shirt."

"Oh my god. The rest were just in the wash," Sam said, sounding embarrassed but lifting his blanket anyway to reveal the Lion King t-shirt. Maybe Dean was imaging it, but Horns looked mildly impressed at the fine detail of the paint on Sam's sleeveless shift as he sketched Simba onto the paper next to their names.

"See Sam?" said Dean. "Easy."

"You will surely be killed," said the man.

 

 

 

 

A medium-sized arena had been set up on the other side of the field, obscured until then by the maze of tents. It was sort of like high school bleachers around a modest dirt field, where four armored figures were currently taking swipes at each other.

He and Sam climbed the rickety steps to sit amongst the crowd, and spent some time doing recon and watching the fights.

"Looks like some sort of nobility up there." Dean pointed to a shaded box of seats a ways away. A man and woman sat in the box, dressed in silky clothing rather than the ratty burlap and leather look everyone else was sporting. "I wonder if they own the sword? But why would they give it away…?"

"You know, I still don't get the appeal," said Sam. "It was really pretty but…"

"Dude, you didn’t get a closer look." Dean remembered looking into the depths of the gem, like seeing a glimpse of the future. "On second thought, don’t get close to it. You won’t like what you see."

Sam gave him a sidelong look, but before he could ask, Dean pointed below the box. 

"See that banner over there? Do you think that’s the score board?"

"Yeah, it looks like they're using a bracket system." A banner with the many coats of arms was hung for all to see, some of the coats of arms crossed out already. "The winners of the first bracket fight each other, and then the winners of that second tier fight each other, and so on. Until it's down to the final two teams."

"Awesome! That means if there are a couple dozen teams then maybe we only need to do a few fights." 

Sam did some quick math. "Actually yeah, maybe four."

That was good news. Just then, a loud cheer broke out from the crowd. The fight had ended.

Dean craned his neck to see. "And hey! It's just a fight to first blood, no need to die."

Sam looked happy about this until the wounded knight in question toppled over then, clutching his side before falling face first in the dust. A couple of medieval medics trotted out onto the field, but instead of carrying him out on a stretcher, grabbed an ankle each, and dragged the knight to the side of the arena and left him there. To top it all off, his lady love pulled off her helmet and stood over him, looking very disgusted by his poor performance.

Dean winced. "Yeesh."

Sam's mouth was just a pursed line. "Come on, let's go get gear."

Thanks to years of petty theft, Sam easily lifted someone's money purse and they went back to the booths and tents and bought a pair of leather britches each. Hopefully they would offer minor protection in the upcoming battle, but it would also be nice if people stopped staring at he and Sam’s jeans. 

Next, they were off to buy armor from a smithy who had a shop set up near the arena. When Dean struggled into his, it was only sort of easy to move. Dean wondered if his usual moves would work in an outfit this heavy and clanky. At least he’d be able withstand a blow or ten without being completely skewered.

Which brought them to choosing a weapon.

"Sword shopping. This is the best day ever," said Dean seriously as he hefted a sabre, testing for the right grip and weight.

Sam's arms bulged as he lifted a broadsword. He swiped an arc in the air, the blade whizzing by Dean's neck, the tip nearly grazing Dean's adam's apple. Dean gulped under Sam's steady gaze.

"Ten bucks says we don't make it," said Sam.

"Don't you mean ten shillings?" Dean squeaked.

"Wrong millenium." A dark grin spread across Sam's face. "We're probably going to die, you know. But at least it might be fun."

Dean tried to look betrayed, rather than turned on. "You've changed your tune."

 

 

 

Outfitted and at least somewhat mentally prepared, they made it to the field with twenty minutes to spare. The fight before theirs seemed to last forever, until a very vicious knockout by a giant woman and her shorter lover. They both ripped off their helmets and started smooching as the audience wolf-whistled.

"Ah," said Dean, sneaking Sam a glance. He wondered if the audience expected the same sort of show if they won. Sam would probably stab him if he tried anything, not to mention that quick beheading that was sure to follow.

A referee announced them as they walked out into the center of the field of play. "Dean the Brave and Samar the Horrible!" he cried.

Sam bowed to the lord and lady in the top box as they'd seen the other couples do, and Dean followed suit. When he turned and gave a little wave to the crowd, he received an uninterested smattering of cheers.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sam, tugging at his chain mail in thought, nodded. "You know, we could start wearing armor on hunts."

Dean laughed. They both knew that that wasn't their style, but it was heartening that Sam was talking like they'd make it back to the second millenium.

"Chin up, Sammy. This will be a piece of cake," he said, trying to return the favor.

And if it wasn't...well. What a way to go.

Their opposition entered then, and the crowd roared.

"Well, that's not fair."

He could feel Sam square off next to him, readying himself for the fight. Dean didn't doubt that they could play dirty, do anything to make it out alive. But he seriously doubted their ability to be refined enough to pass as honorable men. He doubted his ability to feint and parry and draw blood without taking the other party's heads.

He jammed on his regulation metal bucket aka helmet, and drew the longsword he’d chosen. This was a good move, as there didn't seem to be any signal that the fight had begun, and Dean was surprised by a sudden movement to his right, barely visible through the helmet slit.

He reacted automatically, whirling with his sword out. His blade hit something solid and he stumbled back.

The crowd roared. The lady of the couple, who had big braids sticking out of her helmet and armor that was covered in dainty spikes, swung again, nearly taking Dean's head off with a fearsome-looking scythe.

"Angel of Death," Dean breathed, helmet already moist and hot inside. And although Sam almost fell down into the dirt laughing, he seemed to sober up pretty quick when he got a good look at the lady's paramore who stepped forward menacingly.

Dean heard Sam's muffled voice from his helmet as he took a small step back. "Aw, hell no."

"Not laughing anymore, sweetheart?" Dean called.

"Ha ha," said Sam, but it sounded a tad hysterical. Dean had no doubt his boy could handle this fight, but as Sam drew his sword he kept on the lookout anyway.

The fight was not over quickly. The man was wearing full plate armor with a spike-topped helmet, and although he wasn't quite as tall as Sam, he was about twice as built. Which was saying something given the way Sam's strong hands gripped the hilt of the sword, the way Sam's biceps flexed appealingly when he swung his sword in a clean arc to meet the newcomer's.

Dean had a regret, thinking maybe they shouldn't have opted for sleeveless armor that had seemed so good for mobility, and instead gotten some of those vambrace thingies so that their arms weren't hacked off at the elbow.

Welp, too late now. He ducked out of the way of the scythe and just caught the tail end of Sam in a grappling competition with the guy, Sam ultimately pinning him into the dirt with a hand on the other man's helmet, holding it by the spike, chest heaving.

Well, that was quick.

Sam pulled off his own helmet, shaking his messy hair out of his face. His eyes searched around the cheering crowd, then found Dean's. Their eyes held as Sam grinning at him. Dean grinned back, heart pounding. He had seen sexier shows of strength nowhere, not in real life or on TV.

"He's very attractive," the lady told Dean from far too close. "A disadvantage for you?"

"Oh shi—"

Dean had half a second to duck away as the woman's scythe came whizzing down toward him. As it was, he ended up on his back, her scythe hovering above him.

So they were at a draw, Sam with the man compromised, and Dean at the mercy of this fearsome woman.

He flipped up the hood of his helmet, better to grin at her from upside down, more a baring of teeth. "Believe me," he said. "He’s attractive, but I'm used to it." Then he looked beyond her shoulder and said, theatrically, "Oh no!" like something had happened to her lover.

When she looked over her shoulder immediately, he kicked the weapon out of her hands and flipped her onto her back with his sword at her neck.

"Oldest trick in the book," he said in English. Even though she clearly didn't understand him, it felt good for morale to gloat.

When Sam's dude saw what was happening, he stopped struggling under Sam immediately. 

"And first blood," Dean said, giving the women the smallest nick he could with the tip of his sword.

And just like that, Sam and Dean won the first fight. The lady and dude walked off the field, heads bowed in shame, as the nobility in the box waved white handkerchiefs to signal the end of the match. Dean wondered if it was considered noble to leave one’s adversary mostly unwounded, or if it was a blow to the other knights’ pride.

"Knew you were fine," said Dean as he walked laboriously toward Sam. And he had.

Dean saw now that this competition was a tournament meant not to test one's mettle, but to test the trust each person had with their partner. These master swordsmen might be super badass on their own, but they obviously weren't used to the perils of fighting alongside the one you loved. Of having your weak spot bared for your enemy to see and of trusting that your other half could take care of himself.

Dean, however, had trained his whole life for this. Sam was pretty much always an inch away from death, and this wasn't Dean's first rodeo.

He and Sam would be fine.

 

 

Waiting for their next battle, he and Sam leaned against the stalls, watching the competition. Wyot, the first knight they'd encountered in the tent, seemed to be doing well for himself. His wife was equally gigantic and very handy with a sword. Dean kind of hoped they failed out, so he wouldn’t have to face people at least a foot taller than him who were awesome at sword fighting. It seemed like a bad idea all around.

"You know, it's good that armor is one-size-fits all," Sam mused, apparently not contemplating their possible demises. 

"Speak for yourself," Dean said, adjusting his cuirass.

"Sir Dean the brave!"

Dean turned at the call, surprised to find an audience member holding out some kind of food. 

"Hey, thanks!" He accepted it because who was he to turn down a present from an admirer? He examined it the pastry, then bit into it with gusto. It was flakey and warm, with cheese and herbs in there, too. "Oh my god, Sam. It's like a hot pocket."

He savored the next mouthful, eyes closed. "An old timey hot pocket. Only with less unidentifiable stuff in it." He groaned.

"Do you need a moment alone?" Sam asked, sounding somewhat scandalized.

"Thank god we came here, else I never would have experienced this ecstacy."

"So there are perks to armed combat. Who knew?" Sam said then turned at the sound of someone behind him.

"Sir! Sir!"

Dean licked the crumbs from his fingers, watching as Sam accepted a present of his own, a daisy from a child who was reaching as far as she could over the edge of the stands. 

"Thanks, sweetheart," said Sam, smelling the flower.

Dean, who was strong of arm and spirit, felt a flush spread over his face and neck. When Sam put the flower in a chink in his armor for safekeeping, Dean had to look away.

He had to keep his head in the game. He kept his eyes steadfast on the fight happening out in the center of the arena, until it was time for their second match.

This time when they walked onto the field of play, the crowd, recognizing them, in fact welcomed them like old friends, chanting their names and throwing flowers.

Dean waved.

The competition also seemed to have secured the favor of the crowd, however, and Dean could see why. The woman was toting a net and a two-ended sword, and a guy roughly Dean's build and coloring threw off his cape to reveal a vest of daggers.

"You know, this is more like a gladiator ring than I'd imagined. Movies did not prepare me for this."

Sam didn't answer, too busy sizing up the competition. Dean paused, and followed Sam’s gaze. Maybe it was Dean’s imagination, but Sam seemed to be looking at the new guy with something like interest.

Dean suddenly remembered the swirling image in the time traveling gem. The gem that probably was a portal to the past, the present, and the future. 

A future where Sam was going to be locked in an embrace with _this knight_ , he suddenly realized. Their _enemy_.

Dean glared at the guy's stupid face, his green eyes and short cropped hair. A stupid hairstyle for a knight, even Dean knew that. 

"I think I can take him," Sam said to Dean in a low voice.

"How could you," Dean hissed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Fine, you take him. See if I care."

Dean scowled. "Not really my type." When Sam looked at him in confusion, Dean said, "Oh don't look so hurt, I know whose heart you want to fight for." He heavy air quoted.

"What?"

"Shove it, Sam." Dean shoved on his helmet again and then charged his competitor with a wordless battle cry. He took a wild swing at him, which the guy easily sidestepped and Dean rolled awkwardly in his armor so he didn't just land hard on his ass.

"My brother will never love you!" Dean yelled, once he'd struggled to his feet, and then charged again.

After that the fight was quick. Dean barreled into him before he could pull out any of his fancy daggers, then tackled him and sat on his back with his knees around the guy’s head until he gave up. The guy didn't know what hit him.

"You can't have him," Dean growled down into his face, which had the desired effect. The guy looked seriously worried. As well he should.

Sam had more trouble with the man's girlfriend because of getting ensnared in her net, but then Dean jumped on her back as well and took her down quick.

The crowd didn't know how to react to this behavior, vacillating between between booing and jeering, but there was no questioning that Sam and Dean would move on to the next tier.

"He was super weak," Dean told Sam.

"Right," said Sam.

Dean idly resheathed his sword. "Sooo...You didn't happen to hear anything I was discussing with him, did you?" 

Sam didn’t answer, just wondered out loud. "Do you think there's some sort of radiation involved in jumping 700 years into the past?"

"Uh, why?"

Sam gave him a prissy eyebrow. "Because time travel seems to be getting to you."

With that, he left Dean to think about what he'd done.

 

 

 

The crowd was a harsh mistress. Dean thought back to just an hour ago, when he'd been beloved by all in attendance. Now, he was being used for target practice.

"Good aim, I’ll give them that," he said, pulling rotten produce out of his hair. "It must be all that archery." Something else spattered down on him from the stands. "Ah, right in the ear!"

It would have been smarter to keep his helmet on between battles, but he couldn't breathe well and the sun was shining merrily down on them, making it a very sweaty day indeed.

"Well I’m having a good time," said Sam, still annoyed and eating one of the plums that had been thrown their direction. 

Dean considered explaining himself, that he'd saved Sam from having to choose whether to stay in the past for love or return to a future of crime and monsters, but a small part of him was worried Sam would choose the former.

"Yeah, well they _like_ you," Dean said instead, just letting the rain of produce fall where it would. "Ugh."

Because while the crowd had officially turned against Dean, Sam had managed to compete in two matches without making a fool of himself, making a good name for himself in these parts.

Sam looked his way, at the pulp in Dean's hair. "Oh, I thought maybe this was tomato and that history books were wrong. It’s just rotten enough it so it has the consistency of tomato."

"I don't deserve this," said Dean. "Where is your sympathy? Aren't knights like you supposed to defend the weak and innocent?"

"Chivalry is dead," Sam deadpanned, tossing the plum pit at him.

Dean had the next laugh though, when their third fight was ended abruptly when Sam managed to one of their opponents a nasty bloody nose, just after the match began.

"First blood," Sam called to the top box.

The fancy man waved his dainty handkerchief signaling the fight was over. Sam had accidentally elbowed him.

Which meant that they'd somehow made it to the fourth and final fight. But that also meant the crowd felt they'd been cheated from a fight. Many of them booed as Sam and Dean walked off the arena.

"I'm not surprised," said Sam. "Although I'm very impressed. We only have one left." He dropped his sword and wiped at his mail.

"Right? Damn it’s hot though. Can’t wait to get out of this stuff." He made it slowly to the side of the ring, where he poured water over his head from a water skein he suspected might be made of an animal's bladder. "Of all the things we've pulled off, this one is pretty good."

Sam didn't respond, and when Dean looked over, Sam was biting his lip, distractedly watching Dean.

Dean held out the water skein. "Want some?"

Sam shook his head, face ruddy.

"Hey, you don’t look so good. You didn't catch the plague, did you?"

"Shut up— Hey!" Sam cried, jumping away as an apple core hit him in the face.

The knight whose nose Sam had broken was a crowd favorite it seemed, meaning the general goodwill toward Sam had now soured considerably.

"Fickle are the hearts of men," Dean told him.

 

 

 

Dean hadn’t really expected for them to make it to the final match. But here they were.

"Oh sweet Jesus, look who we're up against."

It was Wyot the gigantic, and his equally impressive partner.

"Hail, foreign friends," he greeted them, smile bright. "But not friends anymore."

Dean shook his head. "Wyot man, you know that hurts."

"And I am Etheldred the bold," said his partner. "Wife of Wyot."

"Nice to meet you," Sam said.

"Not too bold, I hope," Dean said to Etheldred after a beat, and then ran for his life when Wyot started after him.

Sam raised his sword. "En garde!" The words were bellowed as he charged Etheldred.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Etheldred turn and lunge for Sam as well. But Dean couldn't just stand there watching. He had problems of his own.

Wyot was circling him now, looking for an opportunity to strike. His stance looked murderous somehow. Maybe it was the giant sword.

Dean stepped forward with a quick swing, and Wyot's sword met his. Sparks flew. They both pulled back immediately, assessing each other for an opening, and then struck again.

For a full minute, all Dean could focus on was the clash of swords and the scuffling of his feet in the dirt. It dawned on him in a moment of pure euphoria that this was sword fighting. Real sword fighting! Followed quickly by the realization that there was no way he'd win this battle playing by the rules. Wyot was too good. He was tiring Dean out, waiting until Dean’s reflexes were slow enough to take advantage of a momentary lapse.

He jumped back to recalibrate, arms burning, and circled his opponent.

But before he could come up with a plan, in just the blink of an eyes, Wyot was suddenly hurtling towards him, sword held above his head and coming in for the kill.

Dean knew the blow was about to come, didn't have time to consider before one— two— three—

He took him out. The sidestep, where Wyot thought Dean would instead step in to meet his sword with his own. The kick to Wyot's knee from the side that made him buckle, followed quickly by the roundhouse kick to Wyot's wrist that had him dropping his blade to the hard, hot dirt.

Dean kicked the weapon away out of reach, and stood over Wyot heaving for breath, his sword at the ready if Wyot tried to tackle him.

But of course he didn’t. Wyot was a true knight, who wouldn’t dream of sacrifice his honor for trickery to win a fight.

The crowd seemed to draw in a breath as one, waiting for Dean’s move. Instead of swinging, however, Dean backhanded the side of Wyot's helmet.

It was nothing personal.

Wyot ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground, looking somewhat dazed. His eyes were wide as his fingers felt at his neck where his helmet must have hit him with the force of Dean's blow. 

His fingers came away red.

"Zounds," he said, but seemed more shocked than upset to have lost.

He blinked up from the shadow of Dean's forbidding form. And the crowd exhaled as Wyot accepted Dean's arm up.

Across the field, Sam was slumped with relief.

Dean wasn’t sure if Wyot was going to accept the defeat gracefully, and stood his ground as Wyot’s hand came toward him. But it was just for another of Wyot's earth-shaking shoulder slaps. "Well met, brother," he said, and Dean grinned back, feeling triumph.

He went and grabbed his sword from the ground, gave it a kiss and held it high toward the booing crowd.

"Dean, I think we won," Sam yelled over. His bangs were sticking to his forehead and his eyes were bright.

The lord and lady looked down at them from above, waving their hankies. "To the victors!" they cried.

 

 

 

Now early evening, after a long, hot day, all in attendance trooped to the tent village, which quickly took on the feeling of an open air festival. Dean wondered if they would be killed for an unchivalrous display on the tournament grounds, or congratulated by the masses, but no one seemed to hold it against them. Instead, someone brought out ye olde kegs and everyone partook heartily, including Sam who looked particularly fetching drinking his brew from one of the horn's of the sign-up guy's Viking hat.

"He's my friend now," Sam explained, four horns in.

"This stuff is deceptively potent, have you noticed?" Dean clinked his glass with a happy woman who might have said she won good money betting on him, but Dean couldn't be sure.

It _was_ all good. No one seemed to hold any grudges, what happened on the tournament grounds seemed to have stayed on the tournament grounds. And Sam and Dean were the stars of the show. Everyone wanted to talk to them, yet barely anyone understood them. 

Dean had the opportunity to show his one party trick, flipping a dagger in his hand and catching it behind his back, and Sam got uncharacteristically tipsy and began the arduous task of removing his armor, the party hot with bodies spilling out of the tent under the evening stars. 

"Here, let me get that," said Dean, who’d taken his off half an hour ago. He turned Sam around and helped with the buckles, a strangely tender feeling as his fingers brushed the back of Sam’s neck at the clasp there, and at his lower back.

"Thanks," Sam said, and shrugged the rest off and left it in a heap. "Someone will use that, right?"

"Sure," said Dean, feeling dazed.

"On second thought," said Sam, and took his Lion King shirt off as well, ostensibly to wipe the sweat and grime from his flushed face.

Dean gulped down beer and stared. "Now that’s just showing off," he said. Sam was a vision, stripped down as he was to just his leather pants and stolen studded sword belt.

Sam paused in rubbing hand over his left pec, noticing Dean's gaze. "I think I have someone's blood on me," he said. "Weird how it happened a couple hours ago but this blood is hundreds of years old, right?"

As he frowned and continued checking for any smears he hadn't washed off, Dean did what was right and tore his eyes away from Sam's washboard abs to listen instead to the fancy dude from the box, who had been called on to give a speech.

"Brave warriors of the realm!" the man yelled.

There came an answering rabble. 

"Artisans! Gentlefolk!"

More rallying cries.

"Today we have witnessed great show of might and dedication befitting the most honorable of knights. Fealty, which speaks to the strongest bond between us — love."

Dean snuck a glance at Sam, who definitely caught him looking.

"Now witness as I bestow upon our champions, the emerald sword: Samar the Horrible, Dean the Brave."

Sam scowled at the name and Dean led the way to the stage, suffering some intense back slaps along the way.

"To the victors go the sword!" The noble woman cried when they stood next to her.

"Yes!" Dean cheered along with the crowd. He was so ready to have that sword in his grasp. And to get home, of course, but hanging at this party wasn’t half bad.

"These men have truly shown valour, and proved their love!" the woman said.

Sam slung an arm around Dean's shoulders, and raised his fist, face happy.

"To the lovers go this sword—" the sword was displayed before them. Its green gem pulsed brightly, beautifully. 

Sam turned his face into the side of Dean’s. "Nothing like a good clean victory," he said into Dean's ear, sending shivers down Dean’s spine.

Next to them, the lord had begun waxing poetic about the sword, clutching it to him. "Those who love by the sword, die by the sword. Speaking of swords, never a finer blade have mine eyes beheld."

"Oh no, it's bewitched him," Dean whispered, distantly aware it was bewitching him as well. 

Dean stepped forward, dragging Sam with him, and reached out to take the sword. He needed to get his hands on it to see what the gem would tell him of his future.

"Quick, Greg," Sam hissed, and Greg stepped up onto stage, taking hold of Sam's belt as he waved a hand and turned to the crowd.

"It is I, the wizard." Greg called in what sounded to be passable speak of the times. "Now for an act of great magic." He waved his free hand, just as Dean got hold of the sword. He ran his fingers lovingly across the unwarbled surface of the gem.

Nothing happened. So caught up in getting close to the sword, the possibility of failure had slipped Dean’s mind. Maybe the time travel only went one way, maybe he and Sam would be trapped here forever.

"You won that sword unfairly," cried Wyot suddenly from the audience. He began pushing forward, attempting to reach the stage. 

"Shit," Dean said, trying to clear his head of the sword’s effects. Wyot must be bewitched as well.

"Dean!" Sam yelled over the commotion. Dean turned to look at him, at the desperation on his face as Sam put his hand over Dean’s on the hilt, leaning in to his space. "Use the sword!"

A glimmer of an idea came to Dean, that maybe Dean hadn't yet completed what the sword wanted him to do. He looked at the gem and remembered what he'd seen in its depths, Sam in an embrace with someone just Dean's build. Maybe this had all been foretold.

He looked at Sam’s panicked face. He owed it to Sam to save him. Nothing else mattered, all else seemed to fall away.

He had to be true to his heart. He needed to fight for his love. 

"Um, punch me later," he said, then he dragged Sam flush against him and laid one on him.

"Wow, they really do things differently where they're from," said the woman on stage, but Dean was too busy losing himself in the soft press of Sam’s mouth against his to hear anything further.

Beyond the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood to his head, he became aware of a green light growing in his peripheral vision, and finally he broke away to see that the gem had intensified to near blinding. It drew him in like a whirlpool.

There was a bright flash—

 

 

 

—and he blinked his eyes furiously until he could see again.

"There was no match for the valour of our fighters, and the strength of our shields!" a voice was yelling to the crowd, and for a moment Dean thought the sword hadn't brought them back at all, that they'd be stuck in an arguably cool but extremely dangerous time period forever. "All fought well this day. But there could only be one victor—"

The voice trailed off suddenly, and Dean blinked the stars from his eyes and saw that the crowd below was staring at them. The friendly-looking bunch was made up of a hundred or so colorful cosplayers munching on corn cobs and drinking from clean-looking steins of beer. And it was Charlie giving the rallying speech, dazzling with a red velvet cloak slung over a pleather vest and breeches.

Charlie had stopped speaking and was gaping at them.

Sam's hands were gripping Dean's shoulders, probably so he didn't lose Dean as they transgressed the boundaries of time and space. He stepped away quickly, as Dean likewise pulled his fingers out of Sam's belt loops with extreme awareness that everyone in the crowd was watching him do it.

"Ah," Sam said to them all, elbowing Dean further away. "Hello!"

"Now you have seen it, folks," said Dean, pulling words out of his ass. "We just appeared on stage, from...from somewhere else. Truly an act of great magic. Yes. The magic of the mighty wizard, Greg!"

Greg stepped forward, flapping his green robes. "Yes, an great act of magic! Alakazam!"

He gave a stilted bow and Sam and Dean followed suit to a smattering of applause. They then promptly shuffled off stage.

Charlie picked up where she left off. "And now, for our time-honored musical tradition. Bring on the bard."

On cue, a bard entered stage left, with a lute and some backup singers and began to tell a tale in song. Charlie jumped off the stage, looking so familiar and real, a friend when most of the time they didn't have one. 

"Man, am I happy to see you," said Dean, overcome with gratitude. He swept her up in a hug, and after a second Charlie pulled Sam in as well. His arm was warm and big around Dean's shoulders for a few moments, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

Charlie pulled back finally, smiling. "And Greg, glad you're back in one piece too."

"Yeah," he said, nodding to Sam and Dean. "Thanks a million. Beers are on me tomorrow. But tonight? I gotta go find my girl."

Dean gave him a thumbs up. "There is no time like the present. Literally."

"Yeah, good luck man," Sam said.

"Dude, that was some Harry Potter shit right there," Charlie said as Greg left. "You just suddenly apparated onto the stage from out of nowhere!"

"Yes," Dean said. "And we were standing so close when we appeared because we were clutching each other for dear life! You know, so we weren’t lost in the great vortex of time."

"We have _a lot_ to tell you," Sam cut him off. "It's going to blow your mind."

"And I can't wait to hear it. But first, do you have any idea how to get rid of the sword?" She gestured to where it was lying forgotten at the edge of the stage. "I've kept it nearby in case you zapped back somehow, but it gives me the heeby jeebies."

Dean went and got it, making sure a cloth was wrapped tightly around the hilt when he touched it. "Absofuckinglutely, your majesty. Is there a fire somewhere where we can try to melt it down?" 

"Right outside. I don't know if it's hot enough, but you could try? Or maybe bury it?" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Anyway, I have to finish this show before the feast, but you're staying tonight, right?"

"Yep," said Dean. They'd gotten more than they'd bargained for today and deserved some relaxation.

"Great, I have an extra tent you can share. Although I only have one sleeping bag to lend you, so you’ll have to figure that one out."

"Great," Dean said, not thinking of the implications, of what Sam was probably thinking beside him. Nothing had to change or be weird now that Dean had forced Sam into a kiss — and Dean shouldn't feel bad about it, it had saved their asses, right?

He led Sam through the crowd and out of the back of the tent. When they came to a campfire, unmanned now that announcements were going on, he pulled the cloth from the sword, for one last look.

Looking at the blade in his hands, all he felt was a certain fondness for it, no longer that inextricable draw. Flickering firelight burnished the blade in gold. The gem though...the gem looked dull and empty now, where before it had been a living thing.

"Huh," Dean said. That proved something, although he wasn’t sure exactly what. That the enchantment had been real, at least. That to let Dean go back to this time period, the sword had asked Dean to confront his deepest desire, sensing somehow what he had been hiding away for a lifetime.

Even so, he was careful not to touch the gem again, just to be on the safe side.

"Ready to melt this time traveling fire poker?" he said, and held it over the campfire. Now to throw it into the fire where he imagined it would melt down like it was made of nothing but magic and wax. Soon all that would be left of this powerful tool would be a puddle and a memory of the lovers it had helped along the way.

Dean willed himself to let go. 

"Err, hold up a second," said Sam, stopping Dean at the last moment.

Dean let himself hope, wildly, that maybe the sword was speaking to Sam. That it had sensed something in Sam as well, something dark and hidden deep...

"We're not keeping it," Sam clarified.

And Dean was disappointed, but the tired, unsurprised kind of disappointment. Of course Sam couldn't see the sword for what it was. Dean was alone with his big feelings, had worn them just below his skin for as long as he could remember, unwieldy and uncomfortable as any armor.

"But there's someone we should give it to," Sam continued.

"Huh?"

"When we came back." Sam looked back to the tent. "I think we brought some hitchhikers."

Dean was confused but wrapped the sword up again, and followed him back inside nevertheless. Sam made his way across the tent, pushing between folks and making a beeline to the kegs.

"I thought I saw someone out of place slip off stage when we landed," Sam said. "And it just hit me who."

He stopped where two large people were huddled in conversation, and Dean saw suddenly that he knew these two, that it was Wyot and Etheldred who had followed them through the portal. Dean remembered then that Wyot had gotten onto the stage to grab the sword. He must have ended up in the time traveling chain, along with his wife.

"Hail," said Sam. 

They looked extremely out of place, staring at all the commotion, wide-eyed and eating slim jims. Dean could sympathize. Needless to say, they looked mightily relieved to see he and Sam.

"Hail, foreign friends," Wyot said.

"You," Dean said in his olden day speak that really had not gotten any better over the course of the day. "Want to go home?"

Wyot chewed his slim jim for a long while, staring around at the party going on, with the speakers that played fake old-timey music and the colorful streamers and funnel cakes. "I will stay," he decided. "I am interested in this magic world."

Etheldred nodded. "I as well."

"It's not the same always," Sam told them. "Most days, it's very different." He leaned toward Dean. "God, I wish I knew more nouns. And verbs for that matter."

The knights shook their heads. "Much death at home. Here, it is happy."

Dean thrust the sword out, wrapped in the cloth again. 

"Magic," Dean said, and Wyot nodded sagely, sliding the sword into his belt.

"If you ever need to get back to your time, touch the gem," said Sam. He then gave them all the cash he had in his wallet, just a couple twenties. "Gold."

"Many thanks," said Wyot, and opening another Slim Jim.

"That can't possibly be good for you." When the guy just blinked at him, Sam said, "Nevermind. Luck be with you."

As they departed, Dean glanced back in time to catch what he thought might be a glint of the gem which seemed to flash in the crowd, but when he blinked it was gone.

"It was a good sword," said Sam sympathetically.

"Thanks, I’ll miss it," Dean said, mock serious. "But also good riddance. I’ve learned something today. Don’t touch swords you don't know."

"Wyot and Etheldred will be fine," Sam said, brow furrowed, looking back again. "Will they be fine?"

"Will any of us?" Dean said, with a poetic sigh befitting Chaucer. "And yeah, we'll let Charlie know what's up and maybe they'll have a network of LARPers who can help get them on their feet. I'm sure anyone would be thrilled to add super cool and forever in-character friends to their guild."

Charlie was now on the podium. Beside her, a lady dressed as a fairy was making an announcement about the milkshake tent, listing flavors she had on offer, including dragonfruit and medieval mint. 

"We'll tell her later, she seems busy," said Sam.

They stopped at the side of the stage, partially obscured by the heavy velvet curtains. Dean noticed that Sam looked nervous now, a look he'd seen today in the arena, like Sam was gathering all his courage for a battle he didn't know if they could win. 

Dean nudged him with his shoulder. "Hey, what's up?"

Sam was avoiding eye contact. "Um," he said. "Good job today."

"Yeah, you too. You’d make a really convincing knight, you know."

"No, I mean...breaking the curse. You did good." Sam said it meaningfully and the smile slowly slipped from Dean’s mouth.

They both knew what he was referring to.

Even so Dean looked away, aiming for nonchalant, unsure if he pulled it off. "What? Um, what curse? There was no curse. Just some mumbo jumbo a fake wizard made up."

"The enchantment on the sword. It was real. Obviously." Sam's face had gone red, and Dean snuck a glance, mildly horrified that Sam would bring it up instead of denying everything if it killed him. That was Dean’s policy, and it should be Sam’s too.

He hoped that Sam would stop there and let him off the hook, but Dean never got his wish, did he? Sam had always been a tenacious bastard when he thought he was onto something, couldn’t let anything go. As usual, he barrelled on through. Laughed a little self-consciously, he said, "It took me awhile, but I finally figured out what it all means. With the gem, I mean. And the warning. Or instructions, more like."

"Great, I’m glad you solved the big mystery," Dean cut him off, before Sam could say something terrible, something sensitive about Dean's unrequited feelings. The truth was depressing as all hell and Dean certainly didn’t want Sam’s sympathy.

"It's like the guy was saying, the sword is a tool of chivalry for those who haven't yet found the courage," Sam continued. "It helps them find it within themselves to act. So as soon as the person enchanted by the sword follows their heart, the enchantment wears off."

"What an interesting theory," said Dean weakly. "You know, technically everything that happened today is ancient history, so why don't we let bygones be bygones and..."

"I'm right, aren't I? Dean, tell me I'm right."

Sam was still shirtless and kind of drunk and looked so desperate suddenly. It made that pain in Dean’s chest even worse. 

Sam didn’t know what he was asking. And if Dean answered honestly, well, it would ruin everything. He wasn't brave enough, and Sam didn't deserve this. "Sam, I'm serious, let's just forget—"

"Please just tell me I’m right."

"Why? How could that possibly help anything?" And Dean had all but admitted it now. Things had spiraled out of control.

"Because I saw it, too, Dean. The gem."

Dean's head shot up. "What?"

"The gem was calling to me too, glowing green. Of course it was. Because I— Well, you know. And the only difference between you and me was I was just smart enough not to touch it."

"Sam..."

"I saw it, too," Sam repeated, meeting Dean's eyes. "Nothing has to change, if you don't want it to. But just know that I’m here if you want to...to talk about it."

Dean was sure he had misunderstood what Sam seemed to be saying. The hope alone could kill him, he knew it down to his bones.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore except one thing of which he was completely certain: "I would rather do anything than talk about it, Sammy."

"Ok," Sam breathed, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it was the shock of a lifetime when he put a hand to Dean's chest and shoved him further into the curtains, behind the large throne and out of sight.

Dean’s eyes hadn’t adjusted to the halflight and shadow, but he didn’t have to see anything to feel the breath of Sam's words against his cheek when he said, "Let's not talk about it, then," and brushed his mouth against Dean’s.

Dean found he _loved_ not talking about it. He didn’t waste time with inaction, instead pressing in close, letting go of the doubt and just trusting for once that it would all turn out right. He trusted Sam.

"Well, that's all folks," he heard Charlie yell from out on stage. "Now, to feast!"

There was a cheer from the crowd, a sound of joy that Dean could fully get behind, and shouts of "long live the queen!"

Dean pulled away, nose brushing Sam’s. The feeling in his chest grew stronger, but this time it didn’t hurt.

"You know, I'm kind of sad we missed the tournament?" he said, running his hand up Sam's bicep.

"Oh, the lover's battle has just begun," said Sam brightly. He pressed closer. "Hey, is that your sword or—"

"Har har," said Dean.

Sam was grinning ear to ear, Dean could feel it against his mouth. It was the best reward for anything Dean had ever done.

"We’ve had a long, hard day...Maybe we should go to bed." 

"Good grief," said Dean. He was still trying to catch up, even as Sam led him outside and past bright torches that lit their way through the dark.

"So, I happen to know we're sharing a tent…" said Sam, the hussy.

"Excellent," Dean said. "Long live the queen." Something they could all agree on.


End file.
